blurry satellite photo—which didn’t turn up a damn thing when we ran it through all known-apprehended databases. Does that answer your question? Man-made tsunamis are a fairly new form of warfare.” But if they had followed Sergei, if they had pursued every possible connection, then maybe they wouldn’t have to worry about a US attack.
“All those people,” she whispered, trailing her fingers across the table to the photo taken just after the tsunami. She pulled it slowly toward her, soundlessly crying. He watched, as she willed herself to stare at it.
Live it. Feel it.
He’d brought the photo on a whim. Thinking he’d come face-to-face with the guilty party, he had planned to shove it at her, forcing the criminal to view the senseless devastation. Instead, he watched an innocent woman choose to gaze upon destruction and loss of life. It nearly overwhelmed him, partly because she elected to do so, partly because he refused to look at it himself. Snatching the photo away from her, he buried it in the stack.
She jolted, as surely as if he’d struck her. Her big, expressive eyes batted up to meet his.
He spun from the table to prowl her kitchen. “No need to cry,” he muttered.
Swiping at her eyes, Lana shoved to her feet. “I’ve seen firsthand what happens after a tsunami. Not that you care, but I nearly died a couple of days ago! I keep picturing myself falling into a crevasse, and every time I close my eyes I relive the moment. Now, you tell me my brother is a terrorist! Sorry, but it’s been a trying week!”
“From your tone, I wager some of those tears stem from frustration.”
“You think?” she shot back.
“Hold out your arms,” he commanded.
“What? Why?” Her expression changed, anger displacing any residual distress. “You have some audacity charging into my house and threatening me. I’ve had enough of it.”
“Yeah. What are ya gonna do about it?”
His comment rendered her speechless. He extracted an electronic wand and scrolled it across her torso.
“W-what are you looking for?” she stuttered. “I haven’t left your sight.”
“I’m checking you for tracing bugs. Now, I strongly suggest you cooperate.” His cell was locked to the CIA’s main data uplink. They were monitoring the house and everything within a five-mile vicinity at this very minute. If anyone tried to approach, he’d know about it. But that wasn’t why he’d delayed scanning her. He’d hesitated because he preferred to see how this would play out. As far as hostages went, she’d been fairly cooperative. That didn’t mean she was telling the truth though. Her tears, the theatrics, the whole “oh no, it’s my brother” spiel could all be a ruse. If he found tech on her, it would mark her a liar. And she’d pay for her deception. Acid shot from his stomach into his throat. So his gut disagreed with him. No surprise there. But if push came to shove it wouldn’t matter how he felt about the matter.
“Stay still, Lana.”
She opened her mouth to protest but apparently decided not to. He slowly traced the wand up one arm, across her torso, and down the next. On his next pass, he scrolled across her waist, up along her stomach, and over the rise of her breasts. His gaze never left hers. Even when her breathing changed and her eyes widened.
When he bent and scanned her ankles, he braced for a kick or some other evasive maneuver, but she didn’t fight. She lifted her legs when prompted. He knew he shouldn’t take any pleasure in this, knew it was wrong on way too many levels to count, to enjoy the hitch in her breath as he moved his hands up her long, shapely legs. To hell with it.
He rose slowly and continued to invade her space. Her eyes were uncertain now, narrowing in a way that wasn’t wholly fearful.
He ran the wand over her head and claimed her hair clip.
She swallowed hard before saying, “People actually think to disguise them as hair accessories?”
“Sometimes.”
A cursory